


Crave

by Wordsmith_Storyweaver



Series: Hunger [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, Blood and Gore, Captain Swan - Freeform, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Past Sexual Abuse, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, mentions of sexual abuse, sex and blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-02 19:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15802836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith_Storyweaver/pseuds/Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary: Prequel to Hunger. Killian Jones, enforcer for the Paranatural community, kills the creatures that go bump in the night. On a mission but without real purpose in his re-life, he's faced with a difficult decision that will have consequences for all eternity... If he lives that long.





	1. Chapter 1

**_Chicago, Illinois 1978_ **

Killian meticulously folds the last of his clothes and places them in his suitcase, imposing order on his immediate physical world so that he can control his rage. Even though his current assignment was a success, he feels ill, disgusted with the utter depravity and wanton, malicious barbarity of humanity. He may be a literal monster, but after coming in contact with the mind of that… that demon _bleeder_ —who will thankfully spend the rest of his miserable existence behind bars—he desperately yearns for the cleansing peace of one of the Order’s strongholds.

At the very least, his superiors owe him a holiday in reward for catching this particular piece of bleeder excrement. In reality, the activities of their enemies, the Knights of the Eagle, have run him and his fellow enforcers ragged for the better part of a decade. His yearning for a break has only grown alongside his premonition that something else, something vitally important will prevent him from resting any time soon. A faint vibration strikes the back of his mind, rather like a human’s instinctual “chill” of awareness around the supposed supernatural, and Killian bites back a groan of exasperation. _At least the bloody bastard thought to “knock” this time_.

He briefly considers ignoring his sire, but he has found over the years that his defiance only amuses the Impaler. Thankfully, his dedication to study and self-control mean that he does not need to trance in order to communicate via the sire bond. Vlad had once told him that only the supremely stubborn and self-willed among made vampires ever achieved such control; it wasn’t necessarily a compliment. He finishes packing and begins heading out to his rental car before beginning what will doubtless be an unpleasant conversation.

[“Yes?”] He doesn’t bother with the pleasantries.

A dark chuckle vibrates along the bond. His sire finds his lack of tact funny today, it seems. “ _And a lovely day to you as well, Brother Declan._ _I have an assignment for you: Portland, Oregon. It seems there is one of our kind who is ignoring all laws regarding our secret way of life. You are to eliminate this threat to our existence immediately_.”

Killian recoils at the seductive tone and the mental caress that accompanies the message. Even under the sexual compulsion of the sire bond when he was first reborn, he had resented his attraction to Vlad Tepesh, had resisted giving in to the urges of his new body until he had very nearly faded from existence. But his will to continue living was stronger. He enjoys sex _now_ —enjoys fucking, and often has willing partners of both biological genders and all sorts of different persuasions…

But the sire bond didn’t care about pesky things like preferences and consent. His old friend Marlowe had explained to him that the bond worked as it did to ensure the survival of the reborn, bound them to the sire as both parent and lover in order to solidify the will to live in spite of the agony, and likewise guaranteed that the sire loved and nurtured their offspring until the transformation was fully complete. That the sexual relationship continued past the point of independence was simply a delightful bonus as far as most vampires were concerned. But Killian’s strength of will had marked him out as extraordinary even as a human, and he had done his level best to sever erotic contact with his sire as quickly as possible.

He carefully restrains his mounting fury and resentment with a thought, not allowing his emotions to color his “voice”. [“You know that isn’t my name anymore. I haven’t used it or the name you gave me in centuries.”]

“ _I can hardly call you ‘child’! A sire has to let go of his paternal responsibilities at some point. I thought referring to you as an equal would please you, son of my blood._ ” Killian slams the trunk of his rental, a little more forcefully than necessary at the obvious insincerity lacing Vlad’s words, but not enough to reveal his true nature to any humans or hunters who might be watching him.

The old bastard had only ever cared about two things: pleasing himself and furthering the mission of the Order of the Dragon. Tormenting his children often fell into the first category, since the sadistic prick was one of the oldest and most powerful of their race—he had long ago been deemed too valuable to risk… and too volatile to be allowed contact with the human population; so he remained secluded in the mountains of Romania. It left him short of both diversions and of any fragile playthings to torture, thus leading Vlad to seek amusement through baiting him.

[“Find the rogue; execute on sight. Anything else, father?”] Try as he might, Killian has never managed to erase the faint Irish lilt which accompanies this last word. Or his sarcasm in speaking it in reference to Vlad. But the elder vampire’s next words, and moreover their overtone of _actual_ concern, shock him.

“ _Just be careful, my son. I mislike how careless this vampire is being; the bodies of several homeless men have already been discovered by the human police, savaged almost beyond recognition. You have done well against both bleeders and Knights of the Eagle, and those victories have created many enemies for you. As one of my eldest yet living, I would hate to lose you. What is it, the saying? Ah, yes! Watch your back_.” The departing mental caress feels much more affectionate, but it still fills Killian with revulsion.

Many times over the years, he has wished that Marlowe had brought him over rather than Vlad… And just as many times, Marlowe has reminded him that Killian would have then had great cause to resent _him_ instead. He smiles at the memory of the mock horror on his old friend’s face when last they had this conversation. Perhaps a phone call to Marlowe before this next assignment would not go amiss. He needs a reminder why travelling to Romania and assassinating his sire is not one of his better ideas, or at least drop the hint that the Impaler might need to be given a new plaything soon…

 

* * *

 

 

**_Portland, Oregon_ **

In hindsight, taking the taxi had been a bad idea. Not only was the bleeder driver increasingly worried that his fare was suicidal or that he might be a serial killer, but the car was incredibly conspicuous around the derelict warehouses. Unfortunately, blue collar workers like the cabbie were often the best sources of information on the most economically depressed areas of their given cities.

Killian carefully rearranges the man’s memories, leaving him with a clear impression of a nice, elderly widow who tips generously being dropped off at one of the city’s poshest hotel. Thankfully, civilians don’t yet have access to the tracking technologies that the Order and various world governments possess—although he presumes that “naturals” won’t be left in the dark for much longer at the rate that private companies are catching up—so he doesn’t need to worry about any inconsistencies if the driver is questioned later.

Killian smiles to himself, remembering a long ago conversation he heard when he attended a meeting of the Order’s Council as his father’s servant about the American experiment bringing about “the end of the world as we know it”. But for creatures as old as the vampires in question, the swift technological advancements of this century must seem even more apocalyptic than the Colonies declaring war on Britain and then winning. But all amusement fades when he breathes deeply and opens his senses to the area around him.

Death. These warehouses reek of despair and death. Few of the streetlights are operational, but the few that work are already alight and doing precious little to alleviate the cloudy, afternoon twilight. He sharpens his vision, seeking out heat signatures in the buildings that look ready to collapse on themselves. He sees a pair of bums down an alley, two buildings over, huddled around a trashcan fire; the men are barely reading at human temperature, which means he will seem even more out of place with his clean denim jeans, jacket, and tee.

The Jesus angle will make him look like even more of a predator than he already is, so approaching with cash in hand should do the trick. At best, they’ll readily admit what they know; at worst, he’ll skim the truth from their minds while they lie to his face. Either way, he’ll give them cash for a hot meal, another layer against the cold, or their poison of choice for the night at least. If their information gets him out of the city in less than 24 hours, he might even rearrange their memories sufficient to give them a chance at fixing their lives.

Neither man gives him that opportunity though, both men running scared and abandoning their fire the instant they hear his footsteps nearing the mouth of their alley. The side of his brain wired to thrill in the hunt causes his fangs to descend at the scent of their blind panic. Not even knowing what he was, the rabbits had bolted; they abandoned both warmth and shelter at the slightest provocation... Something is very, _very_ wrong here.

He hears the blood pumping through the veins of the men, hears the staccato rhythm of their hearts, hears their harsh breathing as they run away from him. And then he hears their terrified shrieking a block away. All his instincts scream to life, and he vaults over the chain link fence that bisects his path, tucking his body so that he can land in a controlled roll and keep moving forward. The fresh odor of piss and shit hits him hard and almost halts his stride, but the shocked and still screaming body of one of the bleeders actually stops him.

The man babbles incoherently as he points back the way they came. Killian takes over his mind, finding it a tangle of images overlaid with the green haze of fear. The fine droplets of blood on his face testify to the fact that it is already too late for his companion. Hungry, but unwilling to further victimize the poor bastard, he pours his Will into the human’s brain, urging him to flee further to the safety of a local homeless shelter. He slips several bills into the bum’s pockets and compels him to spread the word to leave this area alone; even if he ends the vampire’s existence, the place is too ripe a potential hunting ground for bleeder criminals and killers.

He releases the man’s mind and returns his focus to his own prey, who will be looking to take their own kill to their nest before feeding. He rounds the corner, noting the splatter of blood against the wall and the wet crimson trail that terminates in a small, broken basement window. He listens carefully, slowly and quietly scenting the air around him; a current from inside the building wraps around him, the foul abattoir miasma confirming that this is the creature’s lair.

The nauseating stench also tells him that he is not dealing with a vampire, but likely something else altogether; unless forced to it, a self-respecting vampire would not let their nest become so disgustingly vile. A Were or a form-shifter would never live in squalor like this, unless outcast from its pack; though possible, the nature of the kills is far too messy, meaning that a zombie is more likely—one that either killed or escaped from the spellcaster who raised it. Even with all the damage to the surrounding wall, the basement window is far too small for him to slip through; switching to his eyesight for heat signatures, he notes the rapidly cooling pools and track of the blood… and sees that the zombie is dragging its meal deeper into the warehouse.

With quick glances around to determine that nothing warm enough to be living is nearby to see, Killian leaps up the wall and secures a fingerhold in one of the upper, already broken windows. Moving swiftly and silently, he hoists himself inside and lands in a crouch on a catwalk that circumnavigates and crisscrosses the large, open space; and while parts of the structure are still secure and steady, he can see that the metal is rusted and rotting in a number of places.

Without too much thought, he lightly leaps down and onto the concrete floor. Positive that he’s finally out of sight of any humans, he reaches for the machete sheathed down his spine under his jacket. Still very much a man of a bygone era, he misses his swords; but carrying any visible blade would raise too many uncomfortable questions, or require him to constantly be altering bleeder memories. Besides, the machete is long enough and sharp enough to cleanly behead practically anything, so having the large knife in his hand as opposed to a gun for this task makes him feel more himself.

Still keeping his other senses attuned for any unexpected company of the Paranatural kind—well aware that this could indeed be a trap—Killian searches for, and finally finds, a stairway with basement access. When he enters the stairwell and begins his descent, he catches a glimpse of the light from outside and realizes that either the cloud cover has thickened, or night has fallen. Relying on his other sight as he hits the bottom of the stairs, he briefly notes that the door to the basement had been boarded up at one point.

The door hangs drunkenly open, barely connected to the wall by a splinted bit of wood and a straining nail. Distantly, rain pings against metal roofing and glass before dripping onto concrete floors. Closer to him, off to his right, he hears contented growls and the wet shredding of teeth through flesh. The man’s body remains relatively warm, but Killian can see the beginnings of cooling at the edges of the flesh. He cocks his head as his focus shifts to the supposed zombie.

Curiously, it is reading to his sight as warmer than one would typically see in the reanimated dead. It’s also fairly small, which is odd given that most zombies are brought to life by a spellcaster for a particular purpose, usually as manual labor or as a particularly vicious pet. Those kept for anything other than physical work tend to be cossetted by their masters, treasured animals who attest to the prowess of the necromancer who brought them back from the dead. The creature, if it is a zombie, is so new that it has had very little care and training, for it never once reacts to his scent or senses its danger.

In the near darkness of the basement, with the walls dripping moisture and echoing across the space, he could almost think it something like the twisted Halfling Goblin that his fellow Brit wrote into his novels many decades ago. _It’s certainly small and quite possibly slimy given the damp, fetid air down here. Will its eyes be “lamp-like”, sickly and pale with hunger and malice? Shall we have a game of riddles?_

While clearly scavenging and alone, Killian has lived long enough to know that he can’t afford to let his pity make him treat the creature as any less of a threat. Nothing brought back from the dead comes back innocent and harmless. He catches sight of a switch on the wall near his hand and decides that the prospect of better lighting is worth the risks. He closes his eyes to keep from blinding himself, still watching its heart signature to make certain the creature stays occupied with its meal, and slips the switch. Sparks fly out of several broken bulbs, but a few remain intact and dimly flicker.

“What do you think you’re doing, young one? Haven’t you been told that it’s poor manners to run and eat?” Killian keeps his knife visibly raised and approaches slowly, finally catching his first glimpse of the creature when it lifts its dripping maw away from the bum’s corpse. The female glares at him through rabidly burning green eyes, prowling forward on her hands in vaguely simian fashion—defending her kill from another predator. Greasy hanks of long hair and the absence of visible genitalia provide the only clues to her gender, as her whole body is starvation gaunt and her pallid, sickly skin stretches grotesquely tight over her bones. Pesky little things like higher brain function and fat storage go by the wayside when trying to keep an Undead body going.

“Fuck me! You’re a Revenant!” A proper vampire is either born or is made, transformed by a sire; a Revenant is made from an incomplete transformation, or when someone dies with sufficient amounts of vampire blood in their system to begin the process of reanimating the body. It explains the viciousness of the kills and the messiness of the remains, for a Revenant, ironically, is rather like the film industry’s more recent depictions of a zombie—mindless, insatiable killing machines who consume flesh as well as blood. Most human zombies are raised for a purpose and meticulously controlled by their necromancer, not allowed to roam without a retraining Will to govern their minds and actions.

“Where is your maker, young one? You can’t be more than a few weeks old… Where is your master?”

No understanding, no comprehension fills her eyes at this speech; her feral growls continue, low and inhuman. She keeps her body over the corpse, but lunges and snaps at Killian. The sway of her hair reveals her neck to him, causing him to hiss in reaction—the skin of her throat, what remains of the left front side, is hanging in mangled strips. Whoever her sire may be, the wanton damage inflicted indicates that they expected her to simply bleed out and die. Which, thankfully, means that he can put the machete down without worrying about someone burying it in his back.

After placing the blade on the concrete, he holds his hands out in front of him so she can see that they are empty. “Easy there, little one, easy! I have no intension of hurting you—”

She snarls and swipes at the air in front of her, the bones of her hands appear to be all but breaking out of her skin and the long fingers tipped in filth-encrusted claws. Killian chuckles at her perception—unable to comprehend speech yet able to scent his lie. “Not anymore, I don’t! I promise... At some level you can understand me; you understand what I am, if not what you are. I need you to trust me here. See? The knife is over there. It’s not in my hand anymore, little one. But I need you to pay attention, and I need you to focus and answer a very important question: where is your sire, hmm? Where is your father?”

The instant the final word leaves his mouth, the Revenant howls in agony, forgetting her meal and gripping the remaining clumps of hair on her head. She falls backward and clumsily tries to scramble away while still covering her ears and wailing. Taking advantage of her distress, Killian pounces and rushes forward. He’s on her before she even realizes that he has moved, avoiding her teeth and claws by the simple expedient of pinning her arms to her side and holding her jaw firmly with his free hand, her back to his front.

She thrashes and snarls, digging her nails into her own flesh as she fights him for her freedom. He curses himself for causing her pain, but he didn’t precisely come prepare to restrain and interrogate anyone, much less a victim who cannot understand or respond to his questions. And even if he could bind her in some way, there’s no guarantee that she wouldn’t irrevocably harm herself in trying to escape. He needs answers as to who made her, and he needs them now.

“I don’t have time to earn your trust, young one, so I’ll ask your forgiveness for this later.” Without giving himself time to think or her to react, Killian sinks his fangs into her left shoulder and lets her blood well into his mouth, instantly drowning his mind in the memories of her life.

Every vampire he’s ever spoken with has described the experience of blood memories in a different way, but the best was by a turned young woman with a fascination with computer technology: an instantaneous download of all collected data. However, accessing those memories can often take too much time if one doesn’t have a clue what they’re looking for. Thanks to her reaction, Killian knows precisely what “keyword” to search for… and a pathetically feeble, anemic folder it is.

_Name: Neve. Parents: anonymous surrender._

_A collection of little girls and boys in a classroom; Catholic school; a nun and a priest in front of a blackboard. A verse written in chalk: Blessed are the children…_

_An office and a desk. The paper on the desk pressed against her cheek. The strike of a cane on the bare flesh of her bottom. “Wicked girl for saying such things about Father Carmichael!”_

_A confessional and a dormitory bed. Cold, hard, and unyielding. Another young girl wakes up crying, blood on her sheets. “Father says we are born wicked, born in sin to be the bearers of sin.”_

_“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”_ Killian barely keeps the rage and revulsion in check, cursing himself even more harshly for violating her will and taking her blood without permission. He “skims” her memories more quickly then, searching for something closer to her death… And finds it at the very end of the “folder”, burrowing himself into her last moments.

 _Neve answers the phone._ The voice is garbled, which means that she has heard it before and the memory of it was tampered with while she was still alive. _“Hello? Honey, it’s for you.”_

 _Cassidy takes the phone from her, slapping her ass as she moves back into the bedroom; his voice is faint, but understandable. “Yeah?... Oh! Uh, hey Pop!..._ _No, no! I can’t drop everything right now! I’ve got some great deals going up here! There’s this little coffee shop -- it ain’t much now, but I’m tellin’ you, we don’t want to miss out on the potential profits here... You know I hate when you pull the **Pater familius** card… Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”_

_A second later, far faster than he should be, Cassidy is in the bedroom and rifling through his dresser and closet. “Who was that, baby?”_

_He doesn’t even pause, but answers her absentmindedly. His image flickers in and out, so he must be moving at vampire speed, careless of whether or not she sees him._ Killian knows what must be next, given how he found her, and he doesn’t relish living it through her eyes _. “Oh, that was just my father. He wants me to come home.”_

_“Home? What are you, twelve or something? I may not know much about families, but—”_

_“You know nothing at all, bitch!” Neve scurries back, tying her robe in place as if that will protect her. But she refuses to let him talk to her like that._

_“Well, sorry! So, when are you going, and more importantly, when are you coming back?” Cassidy grips her by the throat and slams her against the wall, pain spikes through her head and back while her lungs fruitlessly heave for air._

_“I’m leaving now, but this is one trip I won’t be coming back from. Too many people know what I am here; father says I gotta clean up my messes and loose ends. And while it was real swell fucking and feeding, doll, you’re just a pathetic, worthless bleeder cunt.” Cassidy’s fangs extend and his face disappears from sight. Warm, wet splashes down her front as she falls to the floor, falls forward clutching at the ruins of her throat, falls, falls into darkness…_

Killian comes back into his own consciousness after having been in hers for less than a minute, but the broken creature in his arms has already stopped fighting him, making choked, gurgling sobs as it trembles in obvious terror. He feels disgust, pity… and curiosity. Something about the vampire Cassidy’s conversation with his father, his sire, tells him that the Revenant’s memories need to be preserved and reconstructed if possible. He brushes back the hanks of hair, crooning and making soothing sounds as he tips her head back so he can look in her eyes.

Shockingly, there’s now something like human intelligence in the watery green irises. Air wheezes in and out of her shredded throat as her lips move; her hands are no longer clawed, but her fingers are insistently tapping and squeezing on his forearm. Killian leans closer to her mouth, certain that she is finally able to and trying to communicate something to him. The act of feeding from her must have triggered her mind, brought her consciousness back to the surface.

Her voice is painfully high and tight, no more than a whisper. “Please. Kill. Kill... m-m-me. Please. Please! Kill. Please. Kill—”

“I’m supposed to… but you might have information that I need, young one. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, lass.” Killian drags his teeth along his wrist, opening a vein. Blood wells up, and the thing who used to be called Neve keens at the sight of it. She struggles, bucking against him with all of the strength left in her broken, undead body, but he forces her head to his wrist. After a long moment, she latches on, slurping and sucking up the blood as she glares into his eyes.

He rocks with her, speaking words of encouragement and affection to her in Gaelic. He promises that she will never be alone again so long as he lives. He apologizes for all of the men who hurt her before; he promises that, while he cannot guarantee that no one will ever harm her again, he will teach her how to fight; he swears to help her avenge herself, to train her to defend herself.

Slowly, the anger in her gaze fades into languid heat, the pull of her mouth on his blood and the caress of her tongue on his flesh stirring unexpected fire in his veins. She moans and writhes in his arms, no longer in pain or fury but in ecstasy. She grinds her arse against him, instantly bringing his cock to avid attention. Killian groans as their minds connect, primal flashes of mating and desire shuttling back and forth across the growing bridge between them.

“ _Mate. Fuck._ ”

The strength of their mental connection shocks him, her voice—her real voice—an erotic stroke along his every physical and metaphysical cell. He feels a deep, magnetic tug toward her, a compulsion to mark her and claim her, to fill her with his cock and his seed as well as his blood. Even upon waking in Vlad’s bed all those years ago, he never once felt this raging, undeniable _need_ to fuck. And the thought of his sire instantly feels him with revulsion and shame. [“No! Child. Precious. Protect!”]

“ _Mate. Child. Protect. Same. Fuck now?_ ” Killian chuckles at her singlemindedness, and then growls at her in warning. The little minx had managed to distract him with her question while insinuating one of her hands between their bodies and tearing through his jeans to grasp his erection. Unabashed and unapologetic, she _purrs_ at him in response. _“Yes. Want me. Have me. Yours. Fuck now?”_

And God help him, but he yearns to. Because while there’s still plenty of filth and grime on her body, her skin already looks more lively and her hair is beginning to grow back in her scalp. She’s a lovely creature when dirty and bloody, but more importantly, she is _his_. She now belongs to him, and his vampiric instincts are clamoring for him to cement their physical and metaphysical bonds through sex. With a strength born of centuries of self-control, he forces his Will into his mental voice, still keeping his words simple but commanding. [“Sleep now. Clean. Fuck later _._ ”]

Her grunt clearly signifies her disagreement with his priorities, but she cannot hope to combat his compulsion of her mind and body. The final, wordless image he receives before her eyes drift shut and she slips into dreams is of her biting his ass, presumably as a warning against breaking his last promise. Killian exhales in relief when she sags in his arms. It takes him a moment to carefully lay her down—her body healing thanks to his blood, but still so fragile looking, so vulnerable—and remove his jacket to wrap her up in. Once he has her securely covered and picks her up, he reaches out along his sire bond for Vlad.

The shock he hears in the Impaler’s mental voice is almost worth the entire bloody experience of saving and turning the girl.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became longer than expected, which means that there will probably end up being four parts in total... Which is twice what I originally intended.

Blessedly, the Order of the Dragon’s contacts within the American Armed Forces ensure that Killian has access to a safe house where he can properly care for his newly turned child. Unfortunately, said safe house is at a government installation hidden deep in the wilderness of Mount Hood National Forest. It also can only be marginally deemed safe, as he has essentially been placed on house arrest.

Killian sits in a comfortable chair next to the bed, watching over his begrimed Sleeping Beauty. Order Commander Fontaine had graciously lent them her private quarters, which are thankfully nothing at all in appearance like the army barracks he had initially feared; given Neve’s upbringing in a Catholic orphanage—a place where she was repeatedly victimized—he had recoiled at the idea of her waking up in surroundings that might further traumatize her. A holding cell or medical detention room would also have smacked far too much of an abusive institution, so all things considered, he does feel grateful to their current jailor.

Over the years of his long life, he has been accused of many things, but Killian  _will_  be damned before he allows any harm to befall his newly turned child… if he can at all prevent it. Sadly, there will be some imminent pains from which he will be unable to shield her. For even though she may have information stored in her blood which can be of use to the Order, the fact remains that Killian spared her life when he was supposed to kill her. Furthermore, he complicated their situation when he turned her.

Because while many of their traditions as a species are changing or dying out, his own sire remains rigid in his adherence to the “old ways”. Vlad Tepesh, due to his age and the supposedly exalted nature of his bloodline, requires all of his Blood to ask permission before siring children of their own; his personal power and his status as a former member of the Council mean that the Order will not interfere in his right to judge the case… or to discipline his son. Even when presented with the evidence, the Impaler will quite probably view Killian’s actions as rebellious flouting of “The Rules” at best, and a challenge to his authority as head of their line at worst; the consequences of these transgressions ranging from torture to mortal combat to summary execution.

Indeed, as soon as Commander Fontaine arrived with reinforcements—to escort him and Neve to the safe house and to clean up all the evidence of her den—she demanded a vial of blood from Killian, and informed him that he and his child would be subject to interrogation at the Council’s leisure. By asking for both, Vlad revealed that he clearly intends to cover all bases in attempting to confirm, in his own mind at least, the depths of Killian’s guilt. He secretly scoffs at the thought of the old vampire’s misplaced paranoia, his undiminished megalomania.

If it were only his own life and conscience at stake, he would be far less concerned. However, he has his child to think about now, and several promises made to her which his personal honor demands that he must fulfill. And in order to keep his word and redeem those pledges, he must live. Far too many people, far too many _men_ have failed his Neve in her life—have broken faith, broken trust, and even broken sacred vows rather than protected and cherished her as they ought to have done.

Carefully, Killian removes a long jewelry box from the pocket of his jacket and opens it on his lap. He stares at the simple Rosary of Connemara marble, the beads roughly cut and polished more by repeated use than craft. The dark green stones, once paler and visibly veined, now almost blackened by time; once cheaply made but dearly cherished, its value lies not in costly materials used to create it but in the rope’s near 400 years in age. His hand hovers over the stone cross and beads, wondering why he suddenly feels the urge to have their reassuring weight in between his fingers.

Because he remembers all too well the last time he held them, the last time he felt the comfort of telling his Rosary with actual faith and hope in his heart…

 

* * *

 

_Slane, Ireland 1601_

The Friary of Slane, like many small establishments of its kind, was not a cold, isolated mausoleum, but a socially active part of its community. The devoted men of religion did not shut themselves away from the world, but rather strove to serve the people. Poor men and women were given food, shelter, and opportunities to work; those who didn’t lack for physical comforts were given spiritual nourishment and guidance in good works; travelers were given lodgings for the night; and the sick were lovingly tended with medicines created by the herbs of the infirmary’s garden.

Neither was the sanctuary a grandly gilded cathedral, nor any of the buildings crafted with more the simple wood and humble stone. More money had been spent on the stained-glass windows, visually depicting stories from the Scriptures for the illiterate masses to understand and contemplate, than on the clerical vestments or altar pieces. The friars worked, each according to his own talents, on keeping body and soul together for themselves and for the people to whom they gladly ministered.

And for a young man who had no one in the world upon whom to depend or to depend upon him, Slane had been salvation. Once Brother Declan intoned the final blessing over the congregation, he descended the steps from the altar and toward the confessional at the rear of the chapel. Just ahead, he spotted another friar, Brother Gerald, standing in front of the wooden cupboards and fussing with his stole. He raised an eyebrow quizzically at the slightly older man.

“Greetings, Brother Declan! Abbot Marlowe has sent me to take confession in your place, and he asks that you see him in his office directly.”

Declan nodded his understanding, surprised at the unusual summons from the head of their community. While not an aloof or unapproachable man by any means, it was nevertheless uncommon for the average friar to be singled out for private meetings. As he quickly made his way to his simple chamber to hang up his choir vestments and assume his humbler robes, he wondered if there had been some ill report of him or complaint lodged by one of his brothers. Thinking also that perhaps there was some sin of omission or commission that escaped his diligence, he fingered the beads of his beloved Rosary and spoke the time-honored words of prayer under his breath.

Calmed by the familiar routine, he was steady and composed by the time he knocked on the wooden door and heard the bright “enter” from the office’s occupant. “You asked to see me, Father Marlowe.”

The abbot was not a small man by any stretch of the imagination. Not only did he possess the broad chest and round belly of someone who routinely ate well, but his personality and presence filled any chamber he entered. Sometimes to the point of making others almost uncomfortably aware of him, or feeling overwhelmed and sort of crushed. And yet at others, he could be so quiet and attentive to others around him that one could almost forget altogether that he was there.

“Ah! Brother, come! Come, sit down if you please!” The jolly invitation was directed at him from behind the desk as the middle-aged man scratched his quill furiously across a bit of paper, waving his free hand toward a grouping of three chairs set before the peat fire on the hearth. As their leader and highest ranking cleric at Slane, Brother Marlowe’s office could have been far more luxuriously appointed than it was; for a man of Declan’s calling, however, the warmth from the comfort of the chair furthest from the fire was greater than he would feel even in the coldest days of winter with a brazier in his cell.

After finishing his writing, Marlowe stood and stretched slightly as if his back pained him, before walking over to the small cauldron suspended near the fire. The older man grabbed one of the pewter goblets from a sideboard and gestured toward Declan. “Some wine to warm you on this bitterly cold night, Brother?”

“No thank you, Father. I have taken a personal vow against the imbibing of spirits.”

Marlowe shrugged and set about preparing his own bit of the warmed, spiced drink. “No doubt my thin, English blood telling, but I always need a "wee dram" at night to help fire the blood or I’m all out of humor. However, I did not call you here to talk about my problems, eh? Tell me, Brother Declan, what do you know of me?”

The Abbot settled back into the chair closest to the fire and sipped from his goblet, looking over the rim at Declan expectantly.

“I—I don’t believe I understand the question.” Declan fingered the beads of his Rosary nervously as he searched his mind for a likely answer. Marlowe laughed and leaned slightly forward, as if settling in to gossip with an old friend.

“Oh, come, come lad! I’m not deaf, dumb, and blind, boy! I know that there are rumors swirling about -- how I came to be here, how I managed to secure this position. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

What could he, a young friar, possibly tell the abbot which he had not already heard? If there had been whispers about his appointment, had they not been breathed long ago? Still nervous and uncertain, Declan cleared his throat. “I know that you’ve been a brother here at Slane for eight years and our abbot for nearly as long. It’s been said that you pleased the queen somehow, and that she managed to gain you your election as abbot.”

Marlowe startled him by smacking his hand on the arm of his chair and bellowing out an amused laugh. “Facts _and_ the nicest of the rumors! I’ve half a mind to change my recommendation and send you off to become a courtier, my boy! You’ve a deft hand at polite turns of phrase!”

He paused his telling of the Rosary at that, even more curious than before. “Recommendation, Father?”

Marlowe placed his goblet on the small table at his side, leaning closer to the younger man and folding his hands together. “Indeed, my son... But in order to ensure that you fully understand, might I ask you a few personal questions, Brother Declan?”

Confused at the seeming change in topic yet trusting that the abbot would come to his point eventually, Declan cautiously nodded. He felt decidedly uncomfortable at the idea of sharing anything considered personal, not necessarily born of any fear but rather from an innate shyness.

“I know that you began your service as a novice a little later in life than most. Those who commit to a monastic life tend to do so either as the very young, or as grown adults; and yet you came to us as neither. Why was that?” Marlowe’s gaze fixed him in place, pinned him to his seat with its intensity as if the older man sought to pluck the thoughts and memories from his mind directly. Declan valiantly fought the urge to squirm like a guilty schoolboy.

“My whole family died during a recurrence of the sweat, save me. I was possibly the last to catch it, since neighbor found me among the bodies of the dead—ill with fever, yet still alive, and with little memory of what had occurred. Our local priest gave me food and clothing, but the man who found me couldn’t afford to keep me. He and his wife brought me here, and promised me that I could do much good in the world if I dedicated my life to God.”

“And that mattered to you? Helping others and making the world around you a better place?” Marlowe’s words were considered. Clearly, he wanted to understand if Declan had a true vocation or if the choice had been made for him. But, having received the kindness and compassion of his fellow man after having been seemingly miraculously spared by the Lord, Declan knew that a life of service to others was the noblest way to honor those gifts.

It was with simple, earnest faith that he answered. “More than anything!”

Rather than cheer him or appear to convince him, Declan’s words seemed to inspire yet more seriousness and gravity in his abbot. Marlowe looked over Declan’s shoulder, stared off into the distance as if carefully considering his next question. “That is good to hear… The life is not for everyone, but a sincere devotion to your higher calling is necessary. Since you have taken your vows, I presume that you believe in the supernatural—in the spiritual realms and in events and occurrences which appear to have no human explanation?”

His casually delivered words shocked Declan to his core, raked cold nails of distress down his spine. The miracles performed by Christ while on earth, the miracle he continued to perform through His Church… What were these if _not_ spiritual in nature and in defiance of the so-called natural order?!

He affirmed, incredulously, “Of—of course! With God all things are possible!”

Marlowe waved a hand before settling back in his chair and taking his goblet back up for a long, fortifying drink. “There are some days, Declan, where I envy the simplicity of your assurance, your unshakable faith in things that you cannot see.” He took a moment and stared into his wine before continuing their discussion.

“I’m going to reveal something to you, brother, and then I will ask two things of you: the one request will challenge your discretion, and the other will demand more trust and faith than anything else in this life. As you believe in things which defy human logic and understanding, tell me what you know of the Vampyr.”

Declan immediately scoffed, convinced now that the abbot was having a bit of a joke at his expense. The English believed that the native Irish were ignorant, pagan savages at worst, and ignorant, fanatic Papists at best; clearly, while he and Father Marlowe shared the same religious beliefs, the older man was keen to tout his intellectual and hereditary superiority this evening. However, the continued sober expression on the abbot’s face gave him pause, and he answered with gravity and caution. “The Vampyr? You mean the legends of demons who take on human form and feast on blood? The souls of suicides buried at crossroads, doomed to walk the night until the Day of Judgment?”

Marlowe winced at the description, yet appeared unsurprised by it; no one question posed to him seemed to connect to the other, and Declan felt even more at sea in the conversation than ever. “What if I told you, Brother Declan, that not only were these creatures very much real—although not quite as you described them—and that you know several of them? What if I further told you that they have souls, just as you or any other human being? That they walk among us, many without ever causing harm to another living creature? That they are counted among the warriors of God—warriors for enlightenment and freedom?”

For once, he was so shocked as to forget himself. “You are mad, Father!”

Declan did not rise, but rather sunk further into the chair, embarrassed by his outburst and yet unable to recall his words. Legends and tall tales told by Grannies as bedtime stories were just that: stories. What Marlowe appeared to believe, what he suggested was possible could not be any more real than those... Could it? But instead of rebuking him for casting aspersions on his sanity, the older man sighed tiredly, resignedly.

“Declan, I must first ask that you never repeat to another human being the things that I will tell you this night. It is not just for your safety alone that I ask this, but for the safety of untold thousands. Do I have your word that you will not repeat what I have said?” The grave intensity on the abbot’s face could not be mistaken, so, filled with equal parts curiosity and doubt, Declan nodded his agreement.

“More than eight years ago, I did in fact work for her majesty, Queen Elizabeth. I was a spy, and I did my work well. However, it became necessary that I disappear, so my death was staged and bruited about, and I was spirited away here to continue working for the good of England, for the good of the whole world.

“For, you see, I am myself one of those beneficent beings I spoke of—a vampyr, a member of a secret society bound in all honor and duty to advance the cause of the intellectual liberation of the human race. My fellow brothers of the Order of the Dragon and I look toward a future when our races, and all other races of Were and Witch and human and Fae, may all live together in enlightened peace and prosperity. Although the greatest number of Vampyr are born, just as a human child is born, there are some like myself who have been translated to the race of Vampyr from humanity.

“We are selected for our gifts and talents, singled out to live a longer, different life than the rest of humanity; we are chosen to serve, chosen to protect those who are weaker than us. And this, Brother Declan, is my second request. You have been carefully observed for the last few years, your mind and spiritual ideals cultivated, your body buffeted by deprivations and suffering; you have been tested and not found wanting.

“Even now, the head of my Order has examined your thoughts and confirmed that you are more than fit to be granted this transformation, to take your place as one of our noble protectors. Your body and soul will become changed to survive greater challenges, will become empowered to perform greater deeds. Your vows to chastity and to poverty will no longer bind you, but your new vows will commit you to nobler acts of sacrifice that will bring more good into this world than you could possibly imagine.”

Expectant silence held court between them. Not once had Father Marlowe’s earnest sincerity wavered as he spoke. Declan had alternatively wanted to howl with laughter at the sheer impossibility of it all, or to run and summon the physician to administer a tonic. Just as he opened his mouth to suggest just that, a dark figure appeared out of thin air standing behind the third chair.

Declan cried out and nearly rose from his own seat in a bid to flee from the glowering apparition, whose form seemed to be wreathed with billowing shadows and black wisps of fog. Long black hair floated around a swarthy face, whose look of grim determination and glowing silver-black eyes speared him. Declan crossed himself in terror—he felt at once repulsed by and drawn to the man now before him, and instantly knew himself to be impossibly vulnerable to things which he had never imagined before.

And then, the stranger spoke. “Your Jesus once said, ‘blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe.’ Open your eyes, boy! It was no plague that sucked the life-blood from your family; it was no sickness that left them empty husks for you to find after you had wandered back in from the moors. Your mind was not left blank by the creature who butchered them like kine! You raved for nigh a month about the horrors you had witnessed, and it took a very powerful vampire to erase those memories. The neighbor couple who brought you here did so because you had been marked by the very evil which took your family from you; only here would you have been safe from the monster who stole your kin, and so you have.”

In a blur of motion too fast for Declan’s mind to process, the man—the Vampyr—suddenly stood menacingly over him, jaw opened wide and revealing four snakelike fangs fully extended. “ _This_ is the face of your salvation and your damnation. I could have killed you at any time from the second you entered here tonight; Brother Marlowe could have slaughtered you and all the brothers at any moment over the past eight years, and yet he has contented himself on the blood of the sheep, the pigs, the goats that have graced your table. Why? Because we believe that coexistence and harmony are possible—not today, and not while our enemies promote discord.”

As he spoke, the vampyr’s fangs retracted from view. Rather than continue to frightening Declan, he bent slowly, sinuously until he was kneeling at the young man’s trembling feet. “If you agree, you will become stronger, faster—you will become more than human.”

Declan looked over at Marlowe, whose expression looked earnest and hopeful. “Vlad speaks the truth, just as I have. As soon as you were found among the drained corpses of your family, the Order of the Dragon was notified and brought in to hunt the perpetrator of the deed. Sadly, the one responsible was never found. Since that day, you have been destined for this path, and for one as old and resected as Vlad Tepesh to offer to turn you is a great honor indeed.”

Vlad placed his hands on Declan’s knees, drawing his attention back to the kneeling vampyr and his intense, almost possessive gaze. Looking directly at the living, breathing evidence that man may become more than, he wondered what such a transformation would do to him. He did not seek honor or glory, but… “What say you, brother Declan? Will you honor your dead by seeking justice for their deaths? Will you grant mercy to those who would otherwise become the prey of the wicked? Will you join us and aid us in saving those who need our protection most? Will you give your mortal life as a sacrifice, so that you may become a better servant to mankind?”

Declan touched the Rosary beads, suddenly desperate to do more than just pray for the lives of his parishioners to be better. He could ensure that they lived safe and secure, in peace and prosperity, by dying to self. And wasn’t that what Christ practiced through His own death? His resolve firmed in that moment. He would live his life as a living sacrifice. “I will join, and I will serve.”

For the first time, with slow deliberation as he gazed at the young friar, the vampyr smiled. Gently, fondly, he reached out and placed a hand atop Declan’s head, as if to bless him. Though not tonsured, since he had never taken Holy orders, he kept his raven hair cut short. “Dark as night, but with a soul of Light… Henceforth, you are my son, the child of my blood but not my body. Since you are so devoted to the Church, you may carry the surname Jones in its honor, as well as Tepesh. But in honor of your race and your hair, I name thee Ciaran of Irlandia, son of my blood.”

Vlad placed his hands on either side of Declan’s face, thumbs gently brushing his cheeks before leaning closer and kissing his forehead. Pulling back slightly, the newly named Ciaran stared into the eyes of the vampyr who would sire him and shuddered a little, feeling a frisson of anxious anticipation at his expression.

Never once did Vlad take his eyes off of his new child. “Is all prepared as I asked, Marlowe?”

“Indeed, Lord Tepesh.”

“Then it is time to begin his trials.” With sinuous grace, he stood and offered his hand to Ciaran Jones.


End file.
